


Into My Arms

by Jillypups



Series: Tumblr Wedding Prompts [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, I couldn't help but post another SanSan, Nick Cave Inspo, Olenna Tyrell is a dancing fool, SANSAN FOR LIFE, Tumblr Wedding Prompt, sansan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-10
Updated: 2015-09-10
Packaged: 2018-04-20 03:00:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4770959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jillypups/pseuds/Jillypups
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wedding Prompt #22.<br/>“You’re the dj/wedding singer at my friends wedding and you just played my song.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Into My Arms

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ballroompink](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ballroompink/gifts), [beachfront](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beachfront/gifts).



> For Beachfront for the fabulous prompt, and also for Ballroompink she's so badass with her playlists.
> 
>  
> 
> [Picset](http://jillypups.tumblr.com/post/128821784973/into-my-arms-prompted-by-perpetuallytired29)

She’s been playing requests for the past hour and a half, riotous songs to match the rainbow spray of lights that spin and scatter on the crowded dance floor, to drown out the sparkle of merry drunken laughter and the patter of rain on the pitched tent roof overhead. It’s been humorous to watch, as it always is, the girls shout with glee when “their jam” comes on, holding hands as they hip-shake barefoot onto the dance floor. To watch that one drunk uncle who always seems to show up at these things to prove he can really do swing moves or the caterpillar. And tonight hasn’t been much different, though the drunk uncle of the party is the grandmother of the bride, with her glass of champagne in one hand and a man half her age in the other as she shows everyone just how hard she can still work it.

It’s dying down now, thank god, though this is one of the longer lasting receptions she’s DJ’d for considering it’s closing in on midnight, and the handful of couples still trying to wring out the last drops of merriment are doing little more than sweaty sways of to-and-fro. Her feet are killing her despite wearing more sensible wedges to go with her cocktail dress, and because it’s one of her favorite songs, and because it will give her at least four minutes of sitting down with a well-earned cocktail, Sansa puts on “Into My Arms” by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds. She’s got the untouched drink a waiter set down an hour ago to nurse and a chair wrapped in satin, the audible sigh of relief once she sits down behind the low DJ booth and takes a long sip of gin and tonic.  

And then she has the sight she’s only caught a few times tonight and only during the ebbs of the evening, when the tall man with the scars gets up from the head table, head bowed as he crosses the room. It’s not as if the couples slow dancing to the music _avoid_ him, necessarily, but they give him a wide berth, stepping out of his way before they’re even in it. She’s lost momentarily in the length of his stride and how his undone bowtie hangs down, the way his hand dwarfs the lowball glass in his hand, the way his shoulders move as he approaches her. _Holy shit, he’s approaching me,_ she realizes with the startle of spooked wildlife, and she sits up out of the tired slouch she’s in, slathers on a simper that has been on her face so often tonight it makes her muscles ache to slide it back into place.

“Hey there,” she says, and it’s easy to look up in his eyes because she’s already sneaked a handful of glances at the plane of scars on his left cheek, and so by now they’re nothing more than an accessory. _And judging by some of the outfits tonight, it’s one of the more subtle ones. “_ Did you want to make a request?” she says, pushing her drink behind her equipment so she’s not blatantly drinking on the job, no matter that there’s only 10 minutes of her shift left.

“No, and you don’t want me to, either, so you can take that smile off your face,” he says, watching her over his glass as he takes a sip of his bourbon.

Sansa stares up at him with her mouth open, and before she can help herself she lifts her eyebrows in the expression she reserves only for rude people, her upper lip curling as if she has words to use, as if she is fully prepared to mouth off right back to him.

“That’s more like it,” he says with a grin, the lights a Christmas-tree-colored sweep across the wrinkle of his scars. “It’s too late for bullshit, tonight, don’t you think?”

“I- well, I mean, I,” Sansa says, before she breathes out a chuckle and shakes her head. Her feet hurt. Her cheeks hurt. Her back hurts, too, and so she slumps back into her chair. “Yeah, it’s too late for bullshit,” she says. “Pull up a chair.  I know you’re the best man, and your rental shoes can’t be that comfortable for a big guy like you,” she says.

That makes him laugh.

“I’ll take you up on that offer,” he says, setting down his cocktail before he turns away from her, shoulder blades a strain on his dress shirt when he lifts a chair from the closest table.

He sets it down across the booth – just a trussed up rental table, really – and sits backwards in it with his folded forearms resting on the back of it. He picks up his drink and gazes down into it a moment before shaking the ice and taking another sip. Sansa bites her lip, thirsty and weary as she is, and finally she gives herself an inward shrug and drags her own drink back into view, pulling the straw towards the edge of the glass before she lifts it and takes a long swallow. Their eyes meet over their glasses, and in this low ambient late night light she can’t quite tell the color of his, but she can see they’re guarded and they’re serious, there in the stern face of scars and beard. She drops her gaze when he lowers his cocktail, looks up through her lashes to watch him sweep back the few strands of hair that have freed themselves from his low ponytail.

“So, Mister Best Man, if you don’t want to make a request, what are you doing here?” she says, tipping her head to the side as she lets gin mellow her out and brave her up.

“First, I guess I’m here to tell you to never call me that again,” he says, and it’s Sansa’s turn to laugh, and she can’t help but notice how that seems to please him. “Secondly, I wanted to know why you’re playing this song. It’s a far cry from Britney Spears and Keisha,” he says.

“It’s pronounced _Kesha,_ and I can’t help what the bride and groom tell me they want. Plus, at the end of the night I take requests. Except from you, Mister No-Name.”

“Sandor,” he says after a moment, his eyes downcast until he finally lifts them. Her drink is a strong one and she’s weary, is loose limbed from both of those things, but Sansa knows when she feels a spark, and there’s one here between them.

“Okay, Sandor,” she says, smiling now, and because it’s a real one it doesn’t make her face ache. “I played this song because I love it, and because I’m tired of the other bullshit. And as a certain member of the wedding party told me, it’s too late for that now. Why do you ask, do you not like it? Want more Britney?” she says with a grin.

Sandor snorts and shakes his head, rattles his ice again before sipping his drink, those formidable eyes closing as he does so. She takes the time to run a hand over her hair, sweep it over her shoulder in the way she knows looks good, and she wonders how her makeup looks, after so many hours. _Of course he catches me_ , she thinks irritably to herself when he glances up and grins to see her combing her fingers through the length of her hair.

“Well, Little Miss DJ, it happens to be one of my favorite songs, and it’s not really one I hear out and about. I had to see who picked it out.”

“It’s Sansa, actually, and I’m the one who picked it out. It’s just, oh, to me, it’s just so romantic. But also I remember watching my parents dance to this song when I was a little girl, so that's got a lot to do with it, too.”

“Ah,” he says with a nod. “My memories aren’t that great, but yeah, it’s a good song. A uh, a romantic song,” he murmurs.

“What’s it make you think of, Sandor,” she asks, taking another long, slow sip of gin as she watches him huff, inhale deeply before lifting his eyes to hers, and there’s that spark again.

“Sitting alone on a Saturday night, listening to it on repeat.” A brave sort of confession, though he still looks at her straight on as he admits it.

“Oh,” she sighs.

He’s too big and broad and serious to be flippant with his words, because he clearly isn’t a bullshitter and so this memory of his must be true, and it’s sad and sweet, and if she’s ever had to sum up a man with a handful of words, she’d do it now, with his own. Sansa sits up across the table, brazen with a much needed drink, lit up with a spark, pulled in by the snare of a solemn gaze. She rests the fingers of one hand on the high curve of his forearm, making him freeze a moment before he thaws out and lifts his eyebrows.

“Tell you what,” she says, and he hums by way of reply. “My feet are killing me, so you come around here and push repeat before the song ends and then maybe you’ll have another memory. A better one. ‘Cause you’re not listening to it alone right now, are you?”

He looks surprised at her words, but she hasn’t played music for large crowds this long without picking up a thing or two about body language. And so while he masters the look of shock on his face Sansa watches the relaxation of his shoulders, the nodding of his head and the way he leans against his forearms and the back of his chair as he gazes at her.

“Yeah, okay,” he says after a long moment, affording himself and offering her another grin. “You got it, Sansa,” he murmurs, frowning at her with fleeting disbelief before something in her expression convinces him.

She gets a chill when he allows himself the wander of his gaze across her face because it’s not a creepy look but a searching one, and she _knows_ what that’s like, to look for something in another person’s face, though she’s never found it.

_Yet._


End file.
